


Words Carved Into Our Skin

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulbonds, Angst, Body Horror, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22468150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Unspoken words to desired partners are carved into skin by fate.Fingolfin never intended his half-brother to see the ones on his throat, but Fëanor did.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57





	Words Carved Into Our Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a 100 words of unusual hanahaki prompt on Ao3.
> 
> Body horror is the carved in words and the injuries caused by that.

For a moment, Fingolfin thought his brother had returned to threaten him.

That was the last thing he wanted to deal with today, as the words on his body burned and ached. He wanted to go home and soak his wounds, hoping that perhaps this would be enough to finally draw out the love he had for his half-brother from his body. 

Council had not gone well, his anger coaxed by both the words his brother was speaking and the ones wrapping their way around his throat. Fingolfin had felt those words become worse, carved in deeper as he kept himself from shouting them at Fëanor.

But Fëanor did not move to threaten him or to continue the earlier argument, instead merely watching Fingolfin in silence for a moment. Fëanor’s expression was strange, one Fingolfin had never seen before. "I would bid you to come to my house, Nolofinwë. I feel we should have a discussion in private, without others around to interfere."

That was even more odd. Fëanor had never shied from others seeing them fight. If anything, he seemed to delight in not being alone with Fingolfin, as though being alone would mean something. 

Anairë's words echoed in Fingolfin’s mind, her permission mixed with desperate fear that the words would eventually turn into wounds too deep to live, and their discussions of the carved words on his parents' chests that Fëanor likely did not know of, only helped by visits to Irmo's garden. 

Perhaps this would be his chance to not die choking on his own words, he thought. Each breath hurt his throat, as he tried to only take shallow ones that placed less pressure on his wounds. If there was a chance - if he could avoid leaving his children, if he could avoid the mistakes that seemed to have led to so much tragedy for their parents - it would be worth the risk. 

Fëanor waited patiently as he thought. This too was new, and what made his decision for him. "That would be wise."

Fëanor nodded, turning on his heel and striding down the path. Fingolfin followed, smiling politely at those they passed.

He spotted curious looks on many faces. A few muttered about telling the King as they passed, and Fingolfin barely kept the pleasant look on his face. Their father did not need to know of this. He would come to them full of questions, and Fingolfin did not yet know the answers to them. Fingolfin feared Fëanor’s reaction too, if their father showed any signs of disapproval. 

Soon they were at Fëanor's house. It was quiet for once, his sons out on their own errands and the servants gone for the day.

Fëanor himself picked up the tea kettle from its resting place, setting it to warm in the study's fire. Only when it was done and two cups poured did he speak again. "Do you know why Nerdanel left?"

Fingolfin blinked. That had not been how he expected Fëanor to start this conversation. "Nay. If Anairë knows, she has not spoken of such to me, and I thought the gossip likely to be false."

Fëanor nodded. "I saw the words on your throat today at the council."

Fingolfin struggled to connect the two. It could not be that Fëanor had the same secret.

Fëanor lifted his sleeve. There were letters there, carved deep into his skin, so inflamed that Fingolfin could only make out a few words. It was a wonder, he thought, that Fëanor was able to work in his forge.

He was not given enough time to decipher them.

"Nerdanel saw them. We had already fallen apart by then, and so she left me with her best wishes," Fëanor said. "I do not love you as a brother, Nolofinwë."

The redness and swelling on Fëanor's arm shrank. It did not disappear entirely, the words still engraved in his arm. That would take repetition, speaking each phrase once for every time they have been forced down.

Fingolfin stared at them, unmoving as Fëanor looked back at him.

Then Fingolfin drew in a deep breath. "I do not need you to love me as a brother, I only need you to love me."

The pain on his throat decreased and Fingolfin knew those words had healed some.

Fëanor lifted a hand to his throat, fingers brushing the words lightly. It stung less than Fingolfin had expected. "How many more are written on your skin?"

"Hundreds," Fingolfin answered. He had stopped counting the exact number decades ago, but he was sure of that much. 

Fëanor's eyes darkened. "Come to bed with me. I would watch them fade from your skin as you speak them."

"Only if you will allow me to do the same with yours." Fingolfin regretted saying such as soon as the words left his mouth. Fëanor did not tolerate-

He was startled when Fëanor burst into laughter.

"Your behavior is much more pleasing as a lover than it was prior to this." Fëanor pulled his shirt over his head, revealing words etched into skin over hard muscles. "You may do as you wish to me."

Fingolfin could not bite back a moan as another set of words started to fade. He had not imagined those words would ever grace his half-brother’s skin, even in his deepest dreams when he had imagined Fëanor returning this feelings. Now, with this proof that Fëanor would be willing, images flooded his mind of exactly what they could do. 

Fëanor's eyes glinted, a pleased smile on his face as he watched Fingolfin flush. "Will you follow me, Nolo?"

"Yes," Nolofinwë said, standing. "You shall lead and I shall follow, until such words fade from our bodies."

"And after that?" Fëanor stood as well.

Fingolfin took his chance, pulling his brother against him, mindful of both of their wounds. Pressing his hips against Fëanor's buttocks, he drew a gasp as his lips brushed against Fëanor's ear. "Then I hope you shall give me a chance to do as I wish to you."

"Yes," Fëanor answered. "I shall."


End file.
